I Hate Christmas
by Sargent Snarky
Summary: Mark explains to a nurse exactly why he hates Christmas. postRENT by at least 40 years [entered in challege 2]


Title: **I Hate Christmas**

Rating: PG-13 / T due to language (Let me know if you think it should be upped!)

Genre: Angst (as if there isn't enough Mark angst already, but well... it writes itself)

Summary: Mark's POV, at least 40 years postRENT. Mark explains to a nurse exactly why he hates Christmas.

A/N: This is a relatively long oneshot, being in excess of five pages in Word, but it forced its way out of my mind last night. I'd just finished a roleplay session with a friend (she'd gone to bed), and I wasn't about to fall asleep any time soon. I'd considered popping in a movie to watch (either Rent or Howl's Moving Castle, as they were close at hand), but then this plot wererabbit kicked me in the nose and taped my wrists to the keyboard so that I was forced to type it all out.

I don't know why it's so bitter and angsty and depressing (to me at least), but it is. And I don't really know if it's in character for Mark, but when you read this, picture an old Mark who's watched his closest friends die and then spent the rest of his life trying to avoid remembering them because the memories remind him how much of his heart and soul he's lost with each death. Not all of it, mind, but enough that he's no longer who he once was. Picture a Mark who's lost all innocence, but who has forced himself to move on, to ignore all this. Picture a Mark who has a wife (whom he loves dearly and who keeps him sane, makes him keep on living) and has a couple of kids. They're grown up, now, and have families of their own. And they know their father as a nice, kind individual who, while withdrawn and prone to pensive, somewhat moody silences, especially at the mention of certain topics and questions concerning his younger days, is a good father, a quiet father with an unspoken past. Only, now, with them gone and with just him and his wife, he's starting to crack again. He's almost gone, himself, you see, and the patches for his soul that his wife helped him to make are frayed, coming undone just a bit.

Picture that Mark. Then read this.

* * *

Today's Christmas. Merry Goddamn Christmas. 

I hate Christmas.

I really hate Christmas.

Ever since I was a little kid, I've had mixed feelings about the holiday, but… now? I hate it.

When I was a kid, I wavered between falling in love with the pretty lights decorating the houses and the shining decorations in the stores, the gaudy trees and the pretty paper, and, of course, the warm friendly pictures of evenings spent around the hearth while kids twitch in impatience for the next morning, when they'd at last open up their coveted presents, between loving the sights of all that and loathing it out of jealousy.

Sure, I got eight nights of light and laughter, eight nights to play with candles and dradles, gambling for gelt, eight nights of presents and family, but still…

I didn't get the twinkling lights. I didn't get Christmas Crackers. I didn't always get it off from school. I didn't get candy canes. I didn't get the pretty tree or any of the other decorations. And I didn't get Christmas cards. Sure, a couple nice kids who sent cards to _everyone_ would send me a generic "Happy Holidays" card or perhaps the more thoughtful of that sort would send a proper "Happy Chanukah" card. Or Hanukah. Or Hanukkah. No one ever spelled it the same.

Funny, that. No one spells Chanukah right or in proper Hebrew, but they all spell Christmas right. I mean, it's not surprising, given that Christmas was at least originally named in the same alphabet (more or less) as what is commonly used now, but still… The only alternate spelling I've ever seen for it has been X-mas, and even there you still know how to pronounce it, even if you're unfamiliar with the term. With Chanukah, Hanukah, et cetera, you hear people sounding out the word in assorted awkward ways.

Chon – you – kah. Han – ih – kah. Hon – uh – kah. I got sick of correcting people, random strangers, mostly, (especially because they'd usually glare at me), so I don't anymore. I just ignore the clumsy diction and move on.

But Christmas? Do you hear anyone walking around saying "Cha – rist – mas"? Of course not. Not that it matters, really. Just something to complain about.

Ah, Christmas. Speaking of it, as if I haven't done enough of that already, one year on this day, I had this misfortune of being out, attempting to get some things done, despite the fact that most places were closed or not very attentive. Anyway, while I was out, one of those people who makes up for being a selfish pig the rest of the year by going around and being all nice and do-goody on Christmas came up to me and wished me a Merry Christmas. I pointed out that I was Jewish, and she asked me why. Didn't I know that Christ had come and that, if only I believed in him, I would be saved? Maybe she wasn't a once-a-year do-gooder. Maybe she was an Evangelical or whatever.

Anyway, I just kind of stared at her, so she went on, saying that Christmas was the perfect time to see the truth and convert. See that God had made a new covenant with his people and that I ought to acknowledge it. I repeated that I was Jewish and quite content to remain so. Then I walked off. She didn't seem to care that I was more than reluctant to switch religions on a whim. The woman kept at her attempts to convert me for a good half hour or so before I finally grew sick of it and told her to fuck off. If it turned out in the end that she was right and Christ was the way to go, then fine. I'd see her in hell.

She stared at me in shock – obviously she hadn't expected this scrawny, geeky Jewish kid to know that particular phrase, much less use it – and then told me Jesus loves me anyway. I repeated my earlier order for her to fuck off and go have herself a merry fuckin' Christmas, and she glared at me. Then muttered something to herself about some acquaintance of hers perhaps being right, that it wasn't worth it trying to help those stupid Jews. Maybe we don't want help? Ever think of that, lady? That we were content with The Covenant and didn't want a new one? I said as much to her, and she gave me a very nasty look before leaving. I smiled in grim satisfaction. I had done the unthinkable. I had pissed off a self-appointed missionary. Hurrah for me.

But, stuff like that… people like that… Well, it's not what makes me hate Christmas.

No.

Things like that actually make Christmas a bit better, bring some amusement into an otherwise dull and depressing day. They distract from the bitterness, from the desire to go find a bar somewhere, curl up in a corner and drink myself into oblivion. They remind me that life still goes on, even if I wish it didn't and other cheesy, sappy stuff like that.

They distract me from why I loathe and dread this holiday more than anything else. From why I hate Christmas.

They distract me from fate. Because… it's my fucking fate to be the one to survive. The one who's left behind to live on and remember everyone, be a testament to their lives, so that when they die, they die with the knowledge that maybe, just maybe, their lives meant something to someone. To me.

Because that's why I hate Christmas. It's supposed a time of reminiscing, a time of happiness, of goodwill towards men. A time of love. And it's not. Not for me.

Any reminiscing usually ends with me wanting to either break down, sobbing, or throw myself off a building. Or both.

Happiness? I've given up on ever having _that_ again. Every time I've been remotely happy, something happens to utterly destroy any shred of joy, or at least taint it so horribly that it is no longer joy. So that it is a charade, a mockery, a farce. A shadow and imitation of what it once was and should have been.

And goodwill towards men? I'm sick of showing goodwill towards men. I'm tired of being the strong one, the one who sacrifices everything for everyone else, expecting nothing in return. I've lost too much of myself, of my soul, of my heart and of my mind to do that anymore. If I give away anything else, I won't exist anymore. All I've got left are scraps and shreds. I'm not who I once was, and I won't ever be that again. Even if I somehow managed to piece everything back together, the scars would be there, and it'd be just as bad. I'd be just as crippled. So, instead of showing goodwill, I show apathy. Indifference. And men show it right back to me. And we're all miserable together because no one really has the strength, the endurance to be nice to everyone all the time. Or perhaps I'm too jaded, anymore.

But what about love… Part of love is giving away part of your soul and your heart for no apparent reason. But, I gave away too much of my heart, and I barely have enough left to keep beating. Or do I? Is it even beating anymore? Or has it lost so much that it's turned to stone? I don't know. And you know what? I don't think I care anymore.

I did care once, though. Cared about a lot of things, like my camera, my scarf, my glasses, my films. A lot of people, too. More people than things, anyway. My friends. My best friend. My sister and her family. My parents. The woman who became my wife. My daughter. My son. A lot of people But… they're all gone. So… how can I care if there's nothing to care about?

Well, I care enough to hate. Hate Christmas. Hate this stupid fucking day.

And not even because everyone _else_, or at least it seems like everyone else, is happy, reminiscent, charitable and loving.

No. It's more than even that.

It's that half the people I cared about died that day. It's because I lost most everybody on this day. Or… at least in this season. This fucking holiday season.

Not everyone died on Christmas, but a lot of people died right around it. Enough died on it to warrant a perpetual dislike, and that in combination with everything else leads to hate. But… it's like December 24th and 25th are magnets for people dying. At least people I cared about.

Huh. Christmas is supposed to be God's birthday, right? So maybe his idea of a great present is to steal away another soul I love and in that way, rip away another part of my own soul. Bastard. I hate him. I hate his birthday.

Oh, I hate it. And the real hatred of it, the real black loathing began with Mimi. She'd never really recovered from her almost death, but she managed to stick around for a while, clinging to life because of Roger and because of Angel, who wanted her to. But, her time was coming again, and we all knew it. She knew it, too. And her body was more than willing to comply with this fate.

So, we were all in the hospital with her. We spent Christmas in the hospital with her, feeding her ice cubes and brushing, braiding her hair as she tried her hardest to stay lucid. She died December 27th, 1991, at 7: 32 PM, EST. Finally slipped away, with Roger holding her close and bawling. Me, I stood by, quietly, and watched for a while before pulling Roger away so that the doctors could send her body to the morgue.

Yeah. It started with Mimi. Just a little. And it grew with Collins. He was next.

And he went on Christmas Day, on December 25th, 1992, at 2:28 PM, EST, having muttered something about being sorry for leaving us bitches behind, but that he just needed to get out of here and then having slipped into a deep sleep. Christmas of '92 was _also_ spent in the hospital, needless to say.

Another year. Stuff happened. Maureen and Joanne broke up again, like they had nearly ever year, every month, it seemed like. But, this time, they didn't get back together. And they wouldn't ever get back together again, at least not on this earth. Mo led a particularly rowdy protest where many audience members were drunk, and somehow… things happened and a riot started. Some police were called, and one of them stupidly drew a gun. Fired it into the crowd, only his aim was off, and he got Maureen. I'm sure she would have been happy with that ending, but that didn't make it any better. Hell, I still half loved the woman, despite the fact that I also hated the very ground she walked.

Anyway, she would have liked that ending, probably _did_ like the ending because it was sensational. She was a creature who lived for attention, and it brought attention to her for a long while. Well, long for New York, at any rate. A few days of being front page, or at least this case of 'police brutality' was. Which meant that she was featured somewhere. A week after that of being somewhere in the middle of the paper. Joanne had, by this time, disappeared into the woodwork, and we never saw her again. This was in September. Not December. It didn't make me hate Christmas, but it did leave me depressed.

Which made December and what happened then feel even worse to my already unbalanced brain.

I spend a third Christmas in a row in the hospital, though this time it was because I got mugged. More than mugged. Beaten senseless and knifed, too. So much for the benevolent time of year. But, in the scuffle that left me bleeding and unconscious in the gutter, my camera got smashed to bits, which was an awful thing to hear. Roger brought me the pieces when I'd recovered enough (losing that much blood tends to leave one quite out of it for a while, even when one gets more blood from some donor somewhere) to focus upon something besides the weird feelings codeine or morphine or whatever the hell the painkiller was gave me.

He brought the pieces in on Christmas Eve, I think. I cried, too, I think. And then I lectured him because he was looking thinner than he had when I'd last been aware enough of my surroundings to pay attention. Just because I wasn't there to nag him didn't give him any right to stop taking care of himself.

Predictably, he was the next one to go. On the next Christmas fucking Eve. That alone would be enough to make me hate Christmas with a passion. He was _my_ Roger. _My_ best friend. We weren't lovers. Neither of us was homosexual, but we still fit together, almost like a proper couple. Like twin brothers who knew each other entirely too well, yet loved each other all the same. Except that we weren't related, but it was the same sort of relationship. We were close. Closer than normal siblings. Closer than ordinary best friends. But, we weren't a couple. An odd relationship to be sure, but… maybe not unexpected, with what we'd been through together.

I might very well have just let my self die from starvation or something, 'cause I sure couldn't bring myself to care about life anymore, except that the beautiful, wonderful, saving angel who was my girl friend at the time made me eat, made me live and made me (though it took her six months of loving and pestering and just being there) move on with my life. She and I got married, and she got pregnant with our daughter. But, despite having her to live for, to love and to be with, I found myself spending the hated Christmas in the graveyard, just sitting with Roger. And with Mimi, Maureen, Collins and Angel for a bit, too. Even, for an hour or so, with April.

And when I came home, pants all grass stained and cheeks probably tearstained with my stupid self-pity and selfish desire for all of them to be alive again, my wife told me with troubled face and worried eyes that someone named Benny had called to inform me that his wife (dear wife whom he loved, despite our allegations that he married her solely for money) had been killed in a car accident. On Christmas Eve. They'd been driving home from a Christmas party when something happened and suddenly Alison was utterly mangled by debris while Benny escaped with no more than minor scrapes and a broken arm.

Oh, hurrah, hurrah. Another funeral to attend in this winter season, another death to remember. Benny followed her, though. Really quickly, too, and with a bullet. He apparently couldn't take going through life without her. And I feel like it's my fault. If only I'd said something more to him, or dragged him over to stay with us, maybe… maybe he would have given himself time to heal. Or, maybe he would have done it anyway. And yet…

So that left me. Of the group of us who'd originally been together, been supports for each other, there was just me, now. The one of us to survive. The one of us left behind to hate Christmas and New York. Which is why my wife and I wound up moving. Well, that and Alphabet City, New York, New York wasn't the place we wanted to raise our child.

And for a while, it seemed I'd escaped the Christmas curse. Years rolled by, and we had a second child, a son. And we were happy. I was happy. Except on Christmas.

And my hated of Christmas hasn't left. It's grown more this year, too. Because my kids are grown up and are off with their own little families, and my wife just had a stroke. She's unconscious, in a coma, right now. And I'm here, telling you all of this – and who the hell knows why you're still here, listening, 'stead of going home like a good little nurse, because your shift's over – while I'm sitting by her bedside and feeling like shit 'cause it's Christmas, and I'm in the fucking hospital again.

And she'd better not die, because if she dies, I'll really be alone.

Today's Christmas. Merry Goddamn Christmas.

I hate Christmas.

I really hate Christmas.

* * *

A/N: Yeah. There you go. That's what you get from me writing from 2 am 'till about 5 after roleplaying for a while, reading a combination of chick-lit fluff and action/adventure manga whilest drinking a frappaccino and eating a couple ginger snaps. 

Sorry it's so... depressing, I guess. And sorry if it's not very good, or it it's too long or anything, but... It needed to be written, and so I wrote it. Simple as that.

That said, I'd appreciate it if you'd review it for me... Leave an opinion and (if you're really awesome) some constructive crticism. Or, not even constructive, if you hate it. If you hate everything about this, tell me. I'd like to know.

For anyone reading my Apartment rent-fic, sorry that I'm taking so long with the next chapter. I haven't really been in the mood to work on that sort of story, lately, so... I haven't. And I apologize for that.

After next week, which is exam week, I should be a bit better about actually writing more than random drabble that pops into my head as I sit there, wanting chocolate and sleep.

Anway... Please review!


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